


First comes love, then comes marriage

by Enjoloras



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Miscommunication, Multi, Sexual Tension, Trans Enjolras, Weddings, Yeah you asked for it and you got it, bed sharing trope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-21
Updated: 2018-06-30
Packaged: 2019-04-26 01:06:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14390946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enjoloras/pseuds/Enjoloras
Summary: Marius and Cosette are getting married, and with this comes the terrifying realization that Les Amis are all adults. The summer nuptials and unavoidable accommodation issues leave Enjolras facing an unfortunate dilemma.(it's literally just tropes galore, friends. You asked and you got)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Forgive the terrible fic name I need name suggestions. I HATE NAMING FICS.

Enjolras had never been the biggest fan of weddings - as far as he was concerned they were frivolous at best and downright doomed at worst.

He remembered reading a study somewhere that claimed the more expensive the wedding the more likely the marriage was to end in divorce; that probably explained why his parents hated each other so much.

Okay, so maybe his unreasonable hatred of weddings was a _little_ bit biased, and sure, _perhaps_ it had something to do with the litany of photos of him as a bridesmaid for various insufferable family members, but he still stood by that study about divorce rates.

So when Marius had proposed to Cosette one sunny day in the Musain, red-faced and nearly dropping the ring, it had marked the beginning of the end as far as Enjolras was concerned.

It had been one of those horrifying moments of adulthood where you are reminded that you are, in fact, an adult. That fact was bad enough - adulthood was not a pleasant reality - but to make matters worse it had made Enjolras agonizingly aware of his own state of perpetual singleness. Sure, it had never been a problem before – and he wasn't really sure if it was a problem now – but it definitely put things into perspective for him. He'd never so much as kissed anyone (apart from that drunken kiss with Courfeyrac when they'd been 16,) let alone dated, but everyone around him was moving forward when it came to their love lives. 

Cosette and Marius were tying the knot and Eponine had something with the two of them that she was refusing to comment on but that definitely resembled a relationship. Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta were considering getting a dog together - the ultimate commitment – and Jehan had regular (albeit questionable) dates. Bahorel and Feuilly seemed to be tip-toeing around admitting they weren't just roommates any more, and Combeferre and Courfeyrac had finally dealt with their mutual 'oh no I love my best friend!' panics and now subjected Enjolras to playing third-wheel on their date nights.

Which meant that when it came to eligible bachelors of the group it was down to just him and Grantaire – and Enjolras wasn't ready to deal with _that_ complex mess of feelings _just_ yet. Because that was what it boiled down to, really; Enjolras wasn't the Dateless Wonder because he didn't want to date, Enjolras was the Dateless Wonder because he had a very particular partner in mind and apparently absolutely no guts whatsoever when it came to asking that person out.

'I'm not interested in relationships,' he said whenever the topic came up, all the while watching Grantaire from across the Musain and imagining some frankly indecent things.

Courfeyrac had tried to get Enjolras to try internet dating once - a desperate attempt to get him past his infatuation with Grantaire - and that had gone about as well as expected; unsolicited dick pics, a few intense political arguments and one (1) actual coffee date that had ended in Enjolras abruptly throwing his latte all over the guy's crotch when he'd made a remark about how he'd 'always wanted to fuck a trans person'.

The end result of it all had been Enjolras sobbing about how Grantaire would _never_ feel the same way about him and how he'd die alone with a million cats - all whilst Combeferre and Courfeyrac plied him with icecream and tried to comfort him. 

And so, truth be told, the idea of going to Marius and Cosette's wedding was doubly more awful to him than most weddings. He was happy for them, obviously – they were his friends and they were sickeningly well-matched – but the thought of showing up there as the Eternal Bachelor wasn't Enjolras' idea of a good time.

At first he'd tried to think of a million different reasons to pass the invitation up; he'd invented imaginary uni work, contemplated feigning serious illness (people still got scurvy in the 21st century, right?) and even considered visiting his parents the weekend of the wedding before realising that he wasn't _that_ desperate to get out of it. Despite the impressive list of excuses he'd come up with none of them had been utilized in the end – because Marius had gone and asked him to be one of his groomsmen, and Enjolras couldn't say no to that.

So now here they all were, climbing out of a line of taxis and struggling up a long driveway with their luggage. The wedding was taking place at Marius' grandfather's house, and a marquee had been put up in the garden for the festivities. It was a big house, situated just outside of Paris; built of old sandstone in the 1700's, with sprawling gardens all around it and it's own small vineyard, it reminded Enjolras just a little bit too much of his family home. They would be there for two nights, staying in the guest wing of the house - just the fact the house even _had_ a 'guest wing' was evidence enough to Enjolras that he was going to find the weekend unbearable.

Courfeyrac had been taking his role as best man very seriously, having eagerly offered to arrange everything for Les Amis on Marius' behalf; transport, catering preferences, even their tuxes – Courfeyrac was in charge of it all, and Enjolras took some degree of comfort in the knowledge that if anything went horrifically wrong he would know who to blame.

Actually, saying that Courfeyrac was taking his best man duties seriously was probably the understatement of the century. Enjolras blamed Jehan for the whole fiasco; they had made a throwaway comment about how the 'best man' had historically been the best _swordsman_ hired to defend the groom, and as a result of this offhand remark Courfeyrac had gone away and purchased a decorative rapier off the internet. He'd been swishing it around like one of the Three Musketeers for weeks, and Enjolras was grateful that it was about as sharp as a butterknife, certain that someone would have lost an eye by now otherwise. 

“I don't think you'll need to fight anybody, Courf.” Combeferre had said when Courfeyrac had proudly unboxed it on the kitchen table during breakfast one day. He'd been having breakfast with them a lot lately - so often that he'd had his stupid sword delivered to Enjolras and Combeferre's apartment, apparently.

“You never know!” Courfeyrac had protested, trying to hook Combeferre's toast off his plate with it, “It's better to be safe than sorry.”

'Best Man Of The Year' was now talking both quietly and urgently to Marius in the entrance hall of the house, his cheeks rapidly turning pink. Enjolras watched, exchanging a dubious look with Combeferre. After a few moments Courfeyrac spun back around to face the rest of them, that awkward, 'please don't kill me' sort of grin on his face that usually only proceeded total disaster.

“So, there's a slight situation with the rooms...” he started.

“What?” Enjolras said, “What's wrong?”

“Uh, well, apparently Marius' grandfather didn't think he...had many friends. Even though Marius did tell him how many of us would be staying.”

“Meaning what, exactly?” Combeferre said.

“Meaning...he kind of gave out most of the guest rooms to other people.”

“What do you mean by 'kind of'?” Eponine asked, dropping her suitcase where she stood, “I didn't come all the way out to this fancy pants house to crash on a sofa.”

“We have rooms!” Courfeyrac said, holding up his hands defensively, “We do! But, uh, only five between us all, so some of us are going to have to double up...”

Enjolras immediately disliked where this was going.

“Obviously I'll be with Combeferre,” Courfeyrac started, “Joly, Chetta and Bossuet – you three can have one room.”

“That was the plan anyway,” Musichetta said flatly, sitting down on her suitcase.

“Feuilly and Bahorel, are you guys good to share?”

“Obviously!” Bahorel said, slinging one arm around Feuilly's shoulders, “It'll be just like being at home!” he joked, ruffling Feuilly's hair fondly.

Courfeyrac smiled, “Good. Eponine, can you share with Jehan?”

“Only if they promise not to hold a séance or some bullshit,” Eponine said, “If I wake up and they're drawing shapes on the floor with chalk or something I can't be held responsible for what happens.”

“I'll try my best to hold off,” Jehan promised, smirking, “You know I don't actually do that sort of stuff _all_ the time, right?”

“Yeah sure. I don't care if you do, just keep your creepy to your side of the bed.”

“Awesome, so that's settled,” Courfeyrac smiled, and then turned to Enjolras, who had rapidly done the math and was now wondering if he should strangle Courfeyrac to death before the inevitable words left his lips.

This wasn't fair. This had to be deliberate.

Courfeyrac was a vicious fucking traitor.

“Enjolras,” he said, “You and Grantaire---”

“No.” Enjolras said immediately, feeling himself turn bright red, “No. I can just share with you and Combeferre. I don't mind sleeping on the floor.”

“You, uh, don't want to do that,” Courfeyrac said sheepishly, “See, uh...'Ferre and I are kind of treating this as a romantic weekend away, you know...? So...”

“Oh my _god_. You're kicking me out so you can get laid?!”

“Uh, yeah, actually. Kind of.”

Enjolras felt himself growing rapidly redder and redder, “Some friends you are!” he hissed, lowering his voice and leaning in closer to him, “You did this on purpose!”

“I did not!” Courfeyrac said, looking outraged, “Do you really think so low of me?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, _ouch_. Look, just share with Grantaire, okay?” Courfeyrac gave a little shrug, “What's the problem?”

“You know what my problem is. Let me crash with Eponine and Jehan.” At this point Enjolras wasn't above begging.

“Oh hell no!” Eponine said, catching what he said, “I'm not fighting you for the mirror in the morning, blondie.”

“But---”

“It's okay, Enjolras.” Grantaire's voice behind him made him jump; he spun around, coming face-to-face with him. He looked exhausted – like he'd tried to sleep off last night's hangover in the taxi on the way to the house – and his hair was sticking up in all directions in a way that, honestly, was far more attractive than it had the right to be. Enjolras swallowed the lump in his throat, aware that he was probably the same colour as a tomato by now.

“I---”

“I'll sleep on the floor.” Grantaire offered, looking just as uncomfortable as Enjolras did.

“No, I---you don't have to,” Enjolras said, “Really.”

“It's no trouble.” Grantaire said, “I get it. It's cool. We don't get on at the best of times so I don't think sharing a double is a good idea....we'd probably kill each other over the sheets or something. I don't mind crashing on the floor.”

“No, really---we can share. I don't mind. I don't want you to have to sleep on the floor."

The last thing Enjolras wanted was for Grantaire to think he hated him – that he didn't want to share a room (or bed) with him because he disliked him, not when that was the furthest thing from the truth. He wondered what might happen if he was honest with him - if he just casually said 'Actually I'm wildly attracted to you, embarrassingly sexually frustrated and not entirely sure I wouldn't hit on you if you were lying half-undressed next to me in bed'.

That sort of thing didn't even bear thinking about; it was a surefire way to make an already tentative friendship really weird really fast.

He couldn't room with Grantaire – he just couldn't. Sharing a bed with him? Potentially seeing him half-dressed, all sleepy and messy-haired? God.

It was torture and he would never forgive Courfeyrac for subjecting him to it.

“You're sure?” Grantaire said quietly, running one hand nervously though his curls.

_No!_

“Yes." 

_What are you doing?_

“I'm sure.”


	2. Chapter 2

Dinner was nice – not that that fact did anything to negate the fact that Courfeyrac was a heartless traitor and that Enjolras was probably going to die of embarrassment.

Marius had set all of Les Amis up with a makeshift dinner table away from the main dining room, where the rest of the guests were eating. 

“Are you ashamed of us?” Bahorel asked, taking a break from his onion soup to belch loudly.

“No.” Marius said, his whole face turning crimson, “Not at all, honestly! It's just my grandfather, you see. He's...” he frowned, struggling to find the word.

“A dick?” Eponine put in helpfully, poking at the food on her plate with her knife, “What the hell is this, anyway?”

“Oh, it's scallops in pasta with a champagne sauce,”

Eponine grimaced, skewering a single scallop with such disturbing ease that Enjolras wondered if it wasn't her first foray into the world of stabbings, “What kind of fancy ass food...” she muttered to herself.

“Anyway,” Courfeyrac said, changing the subject, “I've had all our luggage moved and checked out our rooms myself, and they're all wonderful!”

“Do they have free shampoo and stuff?” Bossuet asked.

“It's not a hotel, Bossuet,” Courfeyrac chided, “But yeah, they have toiletries. Just don't take them with you when we leave or Marius' grandfather will sue you. What do you want with shampoo, anyway?”

“Oh, a bald joke. Okay. Haha.”

When they were done with dinner - it had been six courses, a little excessive in Enjolras' opinion - Courfeyrac took it upon himself to show them all to their rooms. Enjolras went like he was going to his execution.

"Here you are!" Courfeyrac said, turning to face him and Grantaire with an impossibly smug grin on his face, "You two have a good night!"

"And you." Enjolras muttered darkly, hoping to convey with his eyes that he was never going to forgive him for this.

 

-

 

It was a beautiful room, Enjolras had to admit. It had an old 18th century fireplace along one wall and a Juliet balcony off the window. As he'd suspected it reminded Enjolras too much of his parents' house, but it was pretty, with heavy floor-length drapes and fresh cut flowers in a vase on the dresser. 

“So which side of the bed do you want?” Grantaire asked.

Enjolras shrugged, frozen in the doorway, “I haven't really got a preference,” he said, desperately wanting his heart to stop doing somersaults in his chest.

The bed was a double – they all were, he knew – but Enjolras was completely sure that this one had miraculously shrunk. He was certain his own double bed at home was much, much bigger. Bigger and emptier and colder. This one seemed ominously small; they were going to be so close, all night.

No – not 'all night', _both_ nights.

Because of course he was going to have to exist in this unbearable sexually frustrated purgatory for two whole days - what kind of cruel, callous universe had conspired against him to make this trip span across _two days_? He felt like an animal in a trap, desperate enough to chew off his own foot to escape the situation.

“I'll take the side closest to the door,” Grantaire decided, “So I can flee if you try to smother me for snoring.” he joked, clearly trying to lighten the heavy mood.

Enjolras gave a nervous laugh, “Alright,” he said, “Then I'll take the other side. Obviously. I can't exactly take the same side as you.”

“Yeah that might be uncomfortable.” Grantaire said, “So. Uh. Cool. That's that sorted, then...” he sat down on the bed, testing the mattress with a few awkward bounces.

“Well, the bed doesn't squeak, so that's a bonus,” he said.

Enjolras felt himself turn red even to the tips of his ears at the implication; Grantaire _had_ to be doing this on purpose, surely?

Seemingly to realise what he'd just said Grantaire sprung up from the bed, clearing his throat and smoothing out his shirt, “Anyway, now what? Should we just go to sleep?”

That made sense. There was nothing illogical about the suggestion; it was getting late, their friends had all turned in, and they had a big day ahead of them, but still, Enjolras scrambled to find a reason to stall.

“You should shower,” he blurted, causing Grantaire to crease his brow.

“I should...?” he asked, lifting one arm to discreetly sniff his armpit.

“No, I don't mean---you don't smell, just, we both should,” Enjolras said, turning pink, “Separately, of course,” he clarified.

“Of course.”

“It's just very warm tonight,” Enjolras said, “And traveling isn't fun. It might be good to freshen up before bed.”

“Uh-huh...” Grantaire ran one hand through his hair, “Do you want to go first?”

“You can,” Enjolras said, “I just need to speak to Courfeyrac about something before we turn in...”

“Alright...” Grantaire said, picking up one of the fancy linen towels that was folded on the end of the bed and wrinkling his nose, “Look at this pretentious shit,” he laughed, turning it towards Enjolras, “It's literally monogrammed. Can you believe that?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Enjolras nodded, “My family love that sort of thing.”

“Wow,” Grantaire smirked, “Now that you mention it I can _totally_ see you with an embossed handkerchief...”

“Oh shut up.” Enjolras said, “Go and get in the shower. I'll be right back.”

Grantaire raised one eyebrow, still looking infuriatingly pleased with himself, and then disappeared into the bathroom, whistling as he went.

Enjolras waited until he'd closed the door behind him and then fled the room.

 

-

 

He was knocking on the door for almost five minutes before Courfeyrac finally answered, wearing nothing but bright pink boxer shorts and a smile on his face. It was clear from his expression that he knew it was Enjolras who had been frantically hammering on the door like the house was on fire.

“Enjolras!” he said, feigning surprise, “What brings you here?”

“Don't play dumb,” Enjolras snarled, cheeks so red that he was sure Courfeyrac would be able to feel the heat radiating off them, “You know exactly what.”

“Grantaire bothering you?”

“No, he's not _bothering_ me---”

“That's a first.”

“No, shut up, I just mean---he---I...” Enjolras spluttered a little, unsure where he was even going with the conversation.

“Are you having trouble settling into your room?” Courfeyrac smirked, leaning against the doorframe.

“You know I am.” Enjolras said, “Courfeyrac, I don't know what to do. He's going to be so...close.”

“And that's a problem?” Courfeyrac asked.

“Of course it is.”

“Why?” Courfeyrac said, raising one eyebrow, “Are you worried you're going to throw yourself at him in a fit of passion?”

“Don't make fun of me,” Enjolras said, starting to pace back and forth in the hallway, “This is an absolute disaster. I don't know if I can do this. I think I need to sleep somewhere else...”

“Well don't look to us,” Courfeyrac said, “We're busy.”

At that exact moment Combeferre appeared behind him in one the fancy velvet bathrobes provided in the rooms, adjusting the way his glasses sat on his nose as he peered over Courfeyrac's shoulder.

“Are you alright, Enjolras?” he asked; the fucking _nerve_ of him to ask...

“Of course I am.”

“You're looking a little flushed.”

“It's the summer heat.” Enjolras said tartly.

“If you say so...”

“Don't look so glum, Enj,” Courfeyrac said cheerfully, “We let you guys have the nicest room! We don't have a balcony. You're in the honeymoon suite...”

“I hate you.” Enjolras decided, shooting Combeferre a murderous look, “And you, for letting him do this.”

“I'm not his keeper,” Combeferre said, holding up his hands as though Enjolras had pointed a gun in his face, “I have no control over Courfeyrac whatsoever.”

“Yeah, that much is patently obvious.” Enjolras said, sighing in defeat, “Whatever. I'll get even with you for this at a later date.”

“I'm sure you will. Maybe you should go to bed, Enjolras?”

“If I can manage it. Grantaire is _showering_.”

Courfeyrac gave him a sympathetic look, “Try not to ogle him too much?”

“I'm thinking I might just lie down and die in the hallway instead,” Enjolras said dismissively, “It would be less painful.”

“You're being over dramatic. Go to bed,” Courfeyrac said, “And say goodnight to Grantaire for us. Do you want a condom, just in case...?”

“Shut up.”

 

-

 

His own room was less than twelve feet from Courfeyrac's, but to Enjolras the walk back there felt like a ten mile death march.

He knew that when he got back to his room he'd be stuck there for the night – he didn't have any more plausible reasons to leave without it being painfully obvious that he was doing so to avoid sharing the bed with Grantaire.

He braced himself for a moment when he reached the door, taking a deep breath before stepping inside. 

It was a good thing he did; Grantaire was standing out on the Juliet balcony in nothing but the fancy monogrammed towel, enjoying the summer evening and a cigarette.

Enjolras felt his heart leap up into his throat, and for an instant it felt as though his feet had turned into cement blocks. He couldn't move, he couldn't breathe, he could only stand there, staring, like a rabbit caught in the headlights of an oncoming truck.

“Are you done in the bathroom?” he said when his voice returned, several octaves higher than usual.

Grantaire startled, turning to look at him. His dark curls were still wet, some of them falling into his face in a way that had Enjolras weak at the knees.

“Oh, yeah,” he said, waving towards the bathroom, “I'm done. It's a really fancy shower. The water took ages to heat up though. I left it running for you.”

Enjolras nodded, “Thanks,” he said, practically diving into the bathroom before Grantaire could say anything else – or worse still, move and risk his towel falling down.

Grateful though Enjolras was for the gesture of leaving the water running, it was pointless.

He needed a cold shower.

 

-

 

He changed into his pajamas in the bathroom, not daring to leave until he was sure that Grantaire would have put on clothes. When he ventured back into the bedroom he saw him lounging in the bed in a t-shirt and boxers, scrolling on his phone idly as though waiting for Enjolras to join him.

“You get on okay in there?” he asked, not looking up from his phone.

“Yeah,” Enjolras said, drying his hair with a towel, “You're right. The shower is nice.”

“Really bougie,” Grantaire agreed, setting his phone down on his chest to look at Enjolras pointedly.

“If you're going to make another smartass joke about my family, don't,” Enjolras warned.

“Would I ever?”

“Yes."

Grantaire smiled, “Well, I'll refrain for once - you know, since we're roomies for tonight. Truce?” he offered, sitting up in bed and holding out his hand.

Enjolras felt himself flush; “Truce.” he agreed, taking his hand and shaking it firmly, “But when we're back in Paris I can't promise I won't tell you off for being disruptive at meetings.”

“And I can't promise I won't be disruptive at meetings.” Grantaire said, sounding fond, “Now come to bed---ah, I mean, to sleep. You know.”

Enjolras let out an almost hysterical laugh, discarding the towel he was using on his hair and crawling awkwardly into bed. He shifted so that he was as close to the edge as possible, leaving a sort of mattress no-man's-land in-between the two of them.

“It's hot tonight,” he commented.

“Yeah, I left the balcony doors open and I'm still sweating like a pig.” Grantaire said, “It's really nice out, though. There's so many stars, and you can smell all the flowers in the garden.”

“Mhmm. Well, goodnight.”

Enjolras just wanted to switch the lights off and go to sleep. He wasn't cut out for all this uncomfortable smalltalk. Having to converse with Grantaire could only go one of two ways – they'd descend into bickering as usual, or, worse still, all of Enjolras' true feelings would come tumbling out of his mouth in an unstoppable flood of awful, terrible, embarrassing words. It was better not to speak unless absolutely necessary, he thought.

“Yeah,” Grantaire said, flicking off the light, “Goodnight, I guess.”

Enjolras didn't think he'd ever been more still in bed his whole life. He stayed flat on his back, arms stiff at his sides, staring up at the ceiling and willing himself to fall asleep as Grantaire tossed and turned beside him. It was agony. Just because to date he had the sex life of a nun didn't mean he didn't feel...certain things. It would be a lie to say Enjolras hadn't let himself think about Grantaire in less than innocent ways once or twice. Or three times. The point was, if he moved and found himself accidentally brushing up against Grantaire in the night he couldn't promise that he wouldn't make an indecent sound.

“Hey, are you still awake?” Grantaire asked after what felt like forever, snapping Enjolras out of his thoughts.

“Yeah,” Enjolras said, voice small, “Why?”

“I was just thinking about tomorrow. I'm real happy for Marius and Cosette. They deserve this.”

“They do,” Enjolras agreed, smiling slightly.

“I don't think I'll ever get married.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. I mean, no one would willingly put up with me for the rest of their life,” Grantaire laughed.

“I don't know. You have your good qualities.” Enjolras whispered.

“That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me.”

“Is it really?”

“I think so.”

Enjolras felt his insides coil with guilt. He hugged his pillow to his chest, closing his eyes again, “I need to sleep.” he said, “Goodnight, Grantaire.”

“Goodnight.”


	3. Chapter 3

Enjolras groaned, stuffing his head underneath his pillow as 'Wake me up before you go-go' began blaring at full volume from his phone; Courfeyrac had changed his alarm tone again, apparently. _Asshole._

He stuck one hand out from under the sheets, feeling blindly for the nightstand until he found his phone to silence it, tempted to simply hurl the wretched thing across the room so it would never make any noise ever again. He didn't want to get out of bed – he was comfortable and content and delightfully warm on both sides, the right side from the sun flooding into the room from the balcony doors, and the left side from...from what, exactly?

He furrowed his brow, rolling over onto his side and stopping within an inch of Grantaire's face.

_Oh._

He stiffened, realising that the pleasant warmth he felt was from Grantaire's body pressed against his. No – _against_ was not the right word; _entangled_ was far more fitting. Enjolras didn't even know where he ended and Grantaire began, and he didn't think he wanted to. There was an arm draped across his waist and a pair of hairy legs entwined with his own, and he could feel Grantaire's breath caressing his face.

They were so close that Enjolras could have leant forwards and kissed him very easily – a ludicrous thought that _definitely_ didn't enter his mind _at all_.

But it wasn't the close proximity to Grantaire's lips that made Enjolras' heart pound, or that they had somehow become a confusing pretzel of limbs, or that Grantaire looked remarkably beautiful when he was sleeping, with his dark curls contrasting against crisp white sheets. No, it was the fact that Enjolras could feel a very pressing problem between the two of them – very, _very_ pressing. Quite literally.

It was hardly Grantaire's fault, he knew - that sort of thing just happened sometimes – but it was the opposite of conducive to Enjolras' 'don't get turned on' plan of action. He lay there for a moment, feeling all the blood in his body rushing to his face, and wondered what he was supposed to do. It was almost impossible to stop his mind from wandering, fantasizing about a scenario where waking up together like this was the norm - a scenario where he could kiss Grantaire gently on the lips to make him stir, where Grantaire would smile at him, all messy-haired and sleep-worn, and then pin him to the bed and---

 _Oh hell fucking no._ He couldn't think like that - _absolutely_ not.

He had to escape the bed -  and he had to do so without waking Grantaire, or the embarrassment would probably prove fatal for them both.

As though his phone had read his mind the sound of 'Wham!' began pouring out of his phone speakers again, because it seemed that Enjolras was an idiot who had only managed to hit the snooze button.

He grimaced, leaning over to grab it whilst attempting to disentangle himself from Grantaire. Somehow he managed it, and somehow Grantaire didn't wake, only shifting a little in the bed and frowning in his sleep at the absence of Enjolras' warm body beside him.

Enjolras stared at him for a moment, breathless, and then hurried about getting into the tux that was waiting for him in the armoire.

 

-

 

There had been no time for Enjolras to get breakfast – the rest of Les Amis had been up an hour earlier, stuffing their faces and apparently not thinking to try and wake him and Grantaire.

“I didn't want to interrupt anything!” Courfeyrac said as they filed outside, waiting for the ceremony to start.

“I wish you had,” Enjolras said under his breath.

 

-

 

Enjolras had to admit that it was a beautiful day for a wedding; there wasn't a single cloud in the sky, and the sunny weather had encouraged butterflies to flock to the garden. A makeshift aisle had been set up by the house, antique benches lined up either side for the guests. 

Courfeyrac looked every bit the dashing best man, his ridiculous decorative rapier slipped into a gold sash around his waist and a yellow rose boutonnière on the front of his jacket. Enjolras wasn't sure exactly what his role as a groomsman entailed – he simply stood beside Combeferre helplessly, certain that he could not have looked more out of place, and listened to the small orchestra that was playing to his right.

When Cosette arrived there was an audible gasp among the guests, even those who had not approved of the union falling into a hushed silence at the sight of her. She was stunning - so much so that even Enjolras was able to appreciate the fact - a vision in ivory and a cathedral length veil, beaming on the arm of the man Enjolras assumed was her father. He glanced at Marius to see his reaction as she made her way up the aisle, a little concerned that he might faint. He looked weak at the knees and as red as a tomato, and Enjolras thought it was fortunate that Courfeyrac was there to catch him if he dropped.

The two of them said their vows beneath an arch of wisteria, Eponine standing off to the side as 'maid of honour' in a suspiciously-close-to-white dress and a bouquet that almost rivaled Cosette's. They had written their own vows, and Enjolras was sure that they were probably unbearably romantic, but he found he couldn't pay much attention to them, too busy watching Grantaire from across the aisle, wondering if he knew anything of how they'd woken up, wondering if he was as embarrassed about it as he was.

Probably not – Grantaire didn't seem bothered, muttering something under his breath to Joly and Bossuet that had the two of them snickering like children.

When the ceremony was over and the famous 'you may kiss the bride,' line was delivered Les Amis were the first to get to the newlyweds to congratulate them; Musichetta squeezed both Cosette and Eponine tightly, Jehan showered them with flower petals, and Bahorel nearly lifted a still very red-faced Marius off his feet in his excitement.

As Enjolras watched Marius and Cosette walking back down the aisle together, hand in hand and beaming from ear-to-ear, he couldn't help but be happy for them. They looked good together, exuding the sort of radiant glow that could only come from loving someone with your whole being. Seeing this, Enjolras felt a twinge of loneliness tug at his heart. He smiled despite this, clapping for the newlyweds with everyone else and ducking out of the way as Les Amis all but pelted them with confetti.

 

-

 

The summer heat was unbearable, and after a few hours in the garden Enjolras was starting to think he might roast to death in his black tux. It seemed that even under the shade of the marquee there was no escaping the heat.

Enjolras wasn't the only one suffering, apparently; Bahorel was now lying face down in the grass trying to keep cool, and Courfeyrac had melted into a nearby chair, aiming two small battery powered fans into his face with both hands. He seemed to have misplaced several items of clothing on the way to the table, and was now sitting there with his shirt open and his bowtie hanging loose around his neck like some kind of millionaire playboy. His rapier was nowhere to be seen, which Enjolras decided was probably not a good thing.

He looked up when he noticed Enjolras, waving him over, “Enj! Come fan me!” he joked.

“I'll pass, thank you,” Enjolras said, sinking down into the empty seat beside him and finishing the glass of champagne he'd picked up from a waiter.

“You're drinking?” Courfeyrac remarked, raising one eyebrow.

“So what if I am?” Enjolras mumbled, “I can drink if I want to, can't I? I'm an adult, last time I checked.”

He hesitated for a moment and then snatched Courfeyrac's glass with his free hand, draining it in one go to make a point.

“Damn Enj, power move!” Courfeyrac laughed, “Are you okay?”

“Of course,” Enjolras said, wrinkling his nose as the bubbles raced to his sinuses.

“If you say so. Why the sudden taste for champagne? No, wait, let me guess – your parents used to give it to you in your golden, diamond encrusted sippy cup, right?”

“Fuck off.”

“Sorry - couldn't help myself. But seriously...” He lowered his head, peering at Enjolras from over the top of his stupid designer sunglasses, “Is something wrong?”

“No.” Enjolras said, far too quickly.

Courfeyrac looked at him dubiously.

“I'm _fine_ ,” Enjolras insisted, cheeks turning pink as he realised he was saying that whilst sitting there with an empty champagne flute in either hand.

“Obviously,” Courfeyrac said, “You're looking more well-balanced than ever right now.”

Enjolras flushed, “Okay, you're right,” he sighed, setting down the glasses; he could feel the champagne already starting to rush to his head, turning his usually ordered thoughts into a horrible messy jumble.

“I'm not fine after all.”

“I never would have guessed,” Courfeyrac said drolly, "What's wrong?”

“Something happened,”

“Oh?”

“Last night,” Enjolras said, looking down at his lap.

Courfeyrac froze, sitting bolt upright in his chair like a curly-haired meerkat.

“What do you mean?”

“After everyone went to their rooms...” Enjolras started.

“Wait, does this involve Grantaire?” Courfeyrac guessed; he looked like he was literally vibrating in his seat.

“Yes...”

“Oh my god!” Courfeyrac covered his mouth with both hands, his eyebrows raised so high that Enjolras wondered if they'd ever come down again.

“Oh my god! I knew it! I _knew_ it!”

“Knew what?”

“Don't play coy with me! I want to know all the details!”

“What? I don't---”

“Did you guys fuck?”

“Oh my _god_ , Courfeyrac!” Enjolras cried, cheeks scarlet, “Could you be any more blunt? No, we didn't!”

“Then what?”

“Well we just...went to sleep,”

At that, Courfeyrac visibly deflated.

“That's it?”

“No, I mean ---yes, but. In the morning, when we woke up, we were sort of...together.”

“Together?”

“You know. Close. Cuddling.”

“Oh.” Courfeyrac blinked thoughtfully for a moment, and then grinned, “Aw, Enj, that's sweet! Wait, then why are you going all 'free bar' on this thing?”

“Because I can't just...be around him, now!” Enjolras said, gesturing frantically at nothing in particular, “How am I supposed to share a room with him tonight after this? What if it happens again?”

“Would that be a bad thing?”

“No, but---I mean, I don't know---”

Courfeyrac smirked, “Who was the little spoon?”

“Courfeyrac, please!” Enjolras groaned, head in his hands, “I am having a crisis, please take this seriously.”

“Look, just relax. I'm sure he's as embarrassed about it as you are. Frankly I think you're making this into a way bigger thing than it needs to be. We've cuddled before. What's a bit of harmless snuggling between friends, right?” Courfeyrac said, a devilish look about him, “Unless it's weird for you because your feelings for him are more than just friendly...”

“Shut up!” Enjolras growled, “Look, that isn't even the worst part,"

“What is, then?”

“He was---” Enjolras stopped in his tracks, feeling his face grow hot, “I...nevermind.”

“He was what?” Courfeyras pressed, scowling, “What's wrong?”

“Well he was...you know,” Enjolras toyed nervously with a loose curl of hair, desperate for a way to say it without actually having to _say it_.

“No, I don't know.” Courfeyrac said, “Enlighten me, please?”

“Well you know how sometimes you wake up and there's a...situation?”

“A situation?”

“Yes.” Enjolras said desperately, gesturing to Courfeyrac's crotch, “Down there?”

“Oh. _Oh._ ” Courfeyrac's eyes grew wide, and then he lit up as though this information was the best thing he'd heard in years, “Oh _wow!_ No wonder you're blushing.”

“Now do you see why things are so...awkward? I don't think he even knows.”

“How could he not?”

“I got up and left before he woke up,” Enjolras explained, “And I haven't spoken to him all day.”

“Oh my god.” Courfeyrac said, looking at him with an air disbelief, “Why are the pretty ones always so dumb?”

“What? What do you mean?”

“He probably thinks his boner offended you!” Courfeyrac said, as though it should have been obvious, “He probably woke up hard and saw you were gone and assumed you'd ran out on him because you were horrified!”

Enjolras' jaw dropped, “I...well I _was_ horrified, sort of...”

“Yeah but I'll wager not for the reasons he thinks you were,” Courfeyrac said, “How's the sexual frustration treating you?”

“Terribly.” Enjolras stated simply.

“Ah, you poor soul,” Courfeyrac gave him a painfully sympathetic smile, dipping one hand into his pocket and then offering out a condom to him, “Here. Just in case.”

Enjolras was too taken aback to even be insulted, taking it from him in stunned silence.

“You just...have these on you at all times, huh?”

“I am dating a _doctor_ , Enjolras,” Courfeyrac said, sniffing disdainfully, “I'm all about safe sex. I wasn't kidding when I offered you a condom last night."

“Alright.” Enjolras scowled, slipping it into the breast pocket of his jacket. He'd have to make a mental note to remember it was there – though not for nearly as exciting reasons as Courfeyrac suggested. He had to return this tux to the tailor in a few days; he really didn't like the idea of being remembered by the store as 'that guy who returned a suit to us with a condom in the pocket,'.

“Is there anything you want me to go over with you in case you _do_ get lucky?” Courfeyrac asked, apparently deadly serious.

“I'm twenty-four,” Enjolras said.

“And?”

“And I know how things work, thanks. Just because I haven't done it before doesn't mean I don't know how to.”

“Alright, alright,” Courfeyrac waved it off, “But if you want advice you can come to me, okay?”

“Okay.”

It was Jehan who mercifully interrupted their conversation, running over from the buffet table with a very complicated looking cocktail in one hand.

“Cosette is about to throw the bouquet!” they announced, pulling Courfeyrac onto his feet, “You have to catch it!”

“Why?”

“I'm too short!”

“Why do you want it?” Enjolras asked, baffled.

“I want to press some of the flowers from it,” Jehan told him, “For Cosette and Marius. Courfeyrac, please---”

“You don't have to ask me twice,” Courfeyrac said brightly, letting himself be led out to where a small crowd was gathering, “Wait for me, Enj!”

He emerged out of the chaos a short while later, brandishing Cosette's now extremely bedraggled bouquet high in the air, “It's me!” he screamed triumphantly, “It's _me!_ I'm going to be the next to get married! Suck on _that_ , Bahorel!”

“Oh come on!”

“Don't worry, I'll invite you to my wedding,” Courfeyrac promised, waving the bouquet at Combeferre, who was in the middle of a conversation with one of Marius' more studious looking older relatives.

“'Ferre, look!” he cried, “It's us!”

Combeferre let out an almost hysterical laugh in response.

“I'm kidding.” Courfeyrac snorted, “Geez, relax. Here, Enjolras,” he said, plucking a single rose out of the bouquet and tucking it behind Enjolras' ear.

“What are you doing?”

“If the whole bouquet means 'next to get married' then surely a single flower from it means 'next to get a boyfriend', or at the very least, 'next to _finally_ get laid'...”

“Oh shut up.”

“Like you're not totally shooting for that.”

Enjolras glared at him, unamused, but could not help but toy with the rose in his hair.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Treating you to a chapter from Grantaire's point of view.

“So what actually _is_ the deal with you and our lovely newlyweds?”

Eponine took a deep drag off her cigarette, setting her bouquet down in Grantaire's lap, “What deal?”

“Oh come on,” Grantaire rolled his eyes, looking down at the already wilting flowers, “You're practically wearing a wedding dress, 'Ponine.”

It was a rare thing to make Eponine blush – Grantaire had only witnessed it maybe twice in the whole time he'd known her – but the comment about her dress succeeded in bringing a slight flush to her cheeks. She picked up her champagne flute, knocking it back like it was a shot of tequila.

“Shut up.” was all she could counter with. _Weak._

Grantaire smirked, “You're not subtle.”

“And you are?”

“What do you mean?”

Eponine scoffed, tossing her cigarette and stubbing it out with her heel, “I mean what's the deal with you and your date?”

“My date?” Grantaire echoed, blinking in confusion, “You don't mean---?”

“Blondie? Yeah I do. You're both single and conveniently sharing a room. That technically makes him your wedding date.”

Grantaire balked; “Don't be ridiculous,” he said, “It's not like that at all. We're just sharing out of necessity.”

“Yeah, yeah, sure,” Eponine said smugly, “You know full well that if you really complained to Marius about it he'd find somewhere else for one of you to sleep.”

“I don't want to be a nuisance,” Grantaire argued.

Eponine burst out laughing, “Well fuck me, _that's_ a first!”

“Oh shut up.” Grantaire said, “It really isn't like that.”

“If you say so.”

“I do say so. And I'm pretty sure this whole situation has just made him dislike me more anyway.”

Eponine snorted, “Why?” she said, “Do you snore?”

“Well yeah, but that's not the problem,” Grantaire said, anxiously picking petals off of Eponine's bouquet, “There was a situation this morning.”

“A sexy situation?”

“No.” Grantaire frowned, “ _Christ._ Definitely not.”

“Well then I don't want to hear about it. At least not until I get more champagne.” Eponine told him, looking around for a waiter.

“You don't understand,” Grantaire lamented, “It was bad, 'Ponine.”

“Bad how?”

“Morning wood.”

Eponine gasped, covering her mouth with one hand as though scandalised; “Oh my god!” she cried, so loudly that Grantaire was sure everyone within a mile radius of them would hear her.

“You---oh _man_ , no wonder he looks so freaked out!"

“Please don't remind me.” Grantaire begged, “It's bad enough as it is. I just woke up like that and he was gone...”

“Gone?”

“He left without even waking me up. He probably thinks I'm a complete pervert now.”

Eponine gave a small tut, “Oh honey,” she said, patting his arm a little patronizingly, “It's a natural thing. I'm sure even he's not _that_ much of a dick – uh, if you'll excuse my choice of words.”

“You're awful.” Grantaire said, “And I'm doomed.”

“Maybe. Oh, hey,” Eponine elbowed him, “Look,” she said, gesturing over to the table where Courfeyrac and Enjolras were sitting. Courfeyrac was waving his arms as though to flag down a plane, Enjolras sinking into his chair as though he wanted nothing more than to disappear.

This couldn't possibly be good.

“Go on then, Casanova,” Eponine urged, nudging him forwards, “Go see what they want. Maybe your sins will be forgiven after all.”

 

-

 

“Ah, Grantaire! I'm so glad you came over here - I'm trying to get our dear leader to dance, but he seems to lack a partner,” Courfeyrac said, seizing him by the wrist and guiding him over towards Enjolras, “Everyone else is already paired up.”

“Oh?” he said helplessly, glancing at Enjolras, who did not look the least bit enthused by the idea. _He hates me_ , Grantaire thought, feeling sick with dread.

“I think Bossuet is free,” He supplied.

“ _Bossuet_?” Courfeyrac exclaimed, looking mortified, “Do you want Enjolras to _die_?”

“No, but---”

“Did you forget what happened the last time Bossuet went dancing?” Courfeyrac said. Grantaire did; crutches for three weeks and five stitches above his left eyebrow. Judging by the expression on Enjolras' face Grantaire didn't doubt that he thought stitches preferable to pairing up with Grantaire for a waltz.

“Are you sure...?” he asked.

“Yes, yes,” Courfeyrac insisted, “You're a wonderful dancer, I've seen you. Don't be shy.”

“Alright,” Grantaire mumbled, holding out his hand awkwardly to Enjolras, “Do you want to dance, then?”

“I don't know how.” Enjolras blurted; it sounded like an excuse.

“Grantaire can show you,” Courfeyrac cajoled, eyes sparkling, “Right?”

Grantaire swallowed hard, “If you want. _Only_ if you want. We don't have to...”

Enjolras hesitated and then finally reached out to take Grantaire's hand. He looked as though he thought he was going onto a battlefield rather than a dancefloor.

“People are going to look at us,” he commented as Grantaire led him over to where several other couples were already dancing, “I don't doubt half the people here are against this sort of thing...”

“Against dancing?”

“You know what I mean. Against two men dancing.” Enjolras furrowed his brow, “But then they probably don't see me as a man,” he added bitterly, “So maybe we'll be okay.”

“If anyone says anything we'll get Bahorel to crush them with his bare hands.” Grantaire said playfully, trying to ease the tension.

He noticed Enjolras smile, feeling his heart flutter in his chest as he did. He looked even more radiant than he usually did when he smiled.

“Do you really not know how to dance?” he asked.

“Sort of.” Enjolras confessed, “My parents put me in lessons as a child. I only know how to follow, which in my situations feels...” he trailed off, eyes on his feet, and Grantaire did not need any further encouragement. He positioned them awkwardly so that Enjolras would be leading, starting to count the steps quietly as they moved.

There was something almost frighteningly intimate about dancing with Enjolras, he thought. He was clumsy in an endearing way, and there was a rose tucked behind his ear that Grantaire was sure was Courfeyrac's doing. He was beautiful, and close, so close as they stepped together.

Grantaire couldn't get what Eponine had said about them being dates out of his mind.

Dancing was _definitely_ the sort of thing you did with your date.

“It's a nice wedding, isn't it?” he said conversationally.

“I suppose,” Enjolras said, “But I'm not the best judge. I hate weddings.”

“Why?”

“My family.”

“Oh.” Grantaire frowned, “Your parents not the 'happily married' type, then?”

“Not even close.” Enjolras mumbled, “They hate each other. I think they always have. My mother is a trophy wife and my father has probably had more affairs than I can count. Hell, my mother probably has too – my dad once said he didn't even think I was his.”

“Oh fuck. That's rough...”

“Not really,” Enjolras said, and his eyes lit up as he spoke, “I almost hope it's true. I would absolutely relish in being the pool boy's.”

Grantaire let out a low chuckle, “Would somewhat taint that silver spoon in your mouth, hey?”

“A bit. I'd love it.”

“Well if it's any consolation my parents probably hate each other even more; they divorced when I was five. My mother is Spanish and my father is French, see – so when they split up my mother took my little sister and went back to Spain and my father kept me. Whenever I visited my mother she'd refuse to speak French because apparently she hates my dad just _that_ much, so poor little five year old me had to become bilingual really quickly."

Enjolras stared at him, shocked, “Wow. Grantaire that's... _unbelievably_ petty.”

“Yeah, I know,” Grantaire agreed, and then grinned, “Guess now you know where I get it, hey?”

Enjolras laughed – actually laughed – and the sound was like music to Grantaire's ears. They stumbled a bit, caught off guard by their conversation.

“Sorry,” Enjolras said, and Grantaire noticed only then that his voice was somewhat slurred.

“Have you been drinking?”

“Yes. Why?” Enjolras challenged, the smile dropping off his face in an instant, “Are you going to judge me for it like Courfeyrac did?”

“No, of course not----”

“You'd be a hypocrite.” Enjolras mumbled. Grantaire closed his mouth, unsure whether or not to speak.

A lot like 'blushing Eponine', 'drunk Enjolras' was a rare phenomenon that Grantaire had only witnessed a small handful of times. He'd seen him once when he was wine-drunk after a particularly stressful protest, and again once at Courfeyrac's birthday party (a mess of a night which had ended with several of them trying to wrangle Enjolras into a taxi as he attempted to climb lamppost whilst singing 'ça ira',)

“Sorry,” Enjolras said after a while, looking down at his feet as they danced, “I've just been drinking all day. It's gone straight to my head."

“ _All day?_ ” Grantaire couldn't hide the surprise in his tone.

“Well, since after the ceremony,” Enjolras said, closing his eyes as though he had a headache and nearly tripping on Grantaire's foot, “Since then.”

“Why?”

“I had to.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well I couldn't exactly stay sober, could I?” Enjolras said, “Not when I have to share a room with _you_.”

Grantaire froze on the spot so abruptly that he almost lost his footing. He knew that Enjolras disliked him – that much had never been in question – but to dislike him so intensely that he had to be drunk to endure sharing a room with him? It felt like being punched in the stomach.

“Oh.” was all he managed to get out.

“It's bad enough I had to come to this wedding in the first place, you know?” Enjolras continued, apparently oblivious to Grantaire's heart breaking right in front of him.

“Yeah...”

“Sharing a bed with you was just the icing on the cake. I'm going to kill Courfeyrac when we get back to Paris.”

“Am I really so awful to room with?” the words left Grantaire's mouth before he could stop them.

Enjolras looked at him, taken aback, and then scowled, “What? No---shut up,” he said, “That's not what I---I don't---fuck, this is coming out wrong.”

“How could that possibly come out _wrong_?” Grantaire said, feeling his despair turn to anger. If Enjolras couldn't stand him that was fine – well, no, it wasn't fine, it was devastating, but he'd survive – but to be so openly cruel about it? At their friends' wedding? That was just shitty by anyone's standards.

“Stop---” Enjolras demanded, “I'm too drunk to argue. I just couldn't handle it, okay? Especially after this morning.”

“This morning?” Grantaire said; it felt like his heart was about to explode in his chest. He almost hoped it did – at least that would kill him quickly.

“Oh. Fuck. Look, Enjolras, about that - I promise there was nothing creepy about it. It was nothing to do with you.” he said, panicking, "Like, no. No way. I'd never."

"Never?"

"About you? No. _Absolutely_ not," Grantaire lied, "I couldn't think about you that way ever."

Enjolras recoiled as though Grantaire had slapped him.

“Thanks?” he said, sounding almost offended.

“I just mean, like, it was an accident,” Grantaire rambled, certain that he was completely losing his mind – because why on earth would Enjolras be insulted that that particular bodily function wasn't in honour of him? That was absurd.

"It wasn't because of you."

“Yeah, I get that. You've made that very clear," Enjolras stepped away from him, face rosy from too much champagne and rogue curls falling in front of his eyes, “Forget it. I'm dizzy. I have to sit down.”

With that he was gone, storming back over to Courfeyrac who had been watching from the sidelines like a proud parent at a school dance – or a referee. Grantaire wasn't sure which.

He watched Courfeyrac pull Enjolras aside, whispering something frantically to him, and then turned and made his way back to his and Eponine's table.

“Well that went shitty.” he said simply.

Eponine had apparently succeeded in flagging down a waiter, at least, because she produced a glass of champagne out of nowhere like some kind of miracle worker.

“Here.” she said, “Get this in you.”

 


	5. Chapter 5

Enjolras was panicking. Well no, actually - panicking was an understated way of describing it. Enjolras was pretty sure that his heart was about to stop. He hoped the feeling would pass, realising that it would probably bring down the mood of Marius and Cosette's wedding if he dropped dead in the middle of the festivities.

He scanned the crowd desperately for Combeferre, making a B-line towards him when he found him admiring some of the plants.

“Your boyfriend tried to make things better and managed to make everything worse.” He said immediately.

Combeferre's facial expression barely changed, “Oh? That doesn't sound like him at all.” he said dryly, turning his attention away from the flowers, “What did he do now?”

“He forced me and Grantaire to dance together.”

“Did he put a gun to your head?”

“No?” Enjolras scowled.

“Then it doesn't sound like he forced you at all,” Combeferre said, sipping his drink.

Enjolras floundered, “I...well, no,” he said, “But he suggested it.”

“And you did it anyway.”

“Look, forget the details – the point is it went _terribly_ , Ferre,”

Combeferre arched one eyebrow, “Did you step on his toes?”

“No, I---look, forget it,” Enjolras said, trying not to sound as desperate as he actually was, “I'm glad we were here for Marius and Cosette, I really am - but do we _really_ need to stay here another night?”

“Yes. They're our friends.”

“I know that – but you know as well as I do that they wouldn't think any less of me for getting a taxi back to Paris tonight.”

“Enjolras, you are staying for the remainder of this wedding.” Combeferre said firmly, “You are going to enjoy this wonderful day. You are going to relax for once. You are going to celebrate with your friends. You are going to get over the fact you have to share a room with Grantaire, and you are going to leave tomorrow morning with the rest of us, _as planned_.”

“But---”

“No buts. They're our friends, Enjolras.”

“Oh damn you both then!” Enjolras decided, tugging frustratedly at his own hair, “Fine. But in that case I need another drink.”

“Don't overdo it, Enjolras,” Combeferre advised, face stern, “You know how you get when you drink too much...”

“Actually I don't.” Enjolras said tartly.

“Most likely because you never remember anything.” Combeferre said, “Just take it easy, alright? There's a firework display about to start now it's getting dark, you can go and watch that...”

“Don't tell me what to do,” Enjolras muttered, “You aren't my father.”

“I'm just trying to help you, Enjolras.”

“I know. I'm sorry.”

He could feel Combeferre's gaze on him as he turned and left, probably fixing him with that long-suffering, disapproving stare he had down so well. Enjolras didn't care. His heart was breaking and he was hurting.

He found an open bottle of champagne on one of the empty tables, grabbing it as he passed it.

If Combeferre insisted that he had to stay until tomorrow then fine – he'd just drink and drink and drink some more, so that when he got back to the room he was sharing with Grantaire he could pass out without having to face him.

That seemed like a _perfectly_ reasonable plan.

He couldn't get the argument with Grantaire out of his mind. He had known, of course, that Grantaire wasn't interested in him – but to hear it from Grantaire's own mouth was more than he could take. It felt like someone twisting a knife in his chest.

Enjolras felt the tears on his cheeks and wiped them away furiously, determined that no one would see him cry.

 

-

 

He wandered away from the marquee, following a trail of lights that went through the garden. It was dark now, and the night was warm and smelled of roses and lilacs, but Enjolras couldn't appreciate any of it. His head felt fuzzy, as though all the champagne bubbles had gathered there to throw a party of their own.

He kept walking until he reached the edge of the garden, where the well manicured flowerbeds ended and the vineyard started. It was darker out there, with no lights lining the way, and Enjolras found himself drawn to it, wanting to disappear for a while to cry and forget about Grantaire – as if that was even possible.

He sat down on the ground beneath a row of grapevines, taking another mouthful of champagne as the firework display started. They exploded across the night sky in vibrant bursts of colour, and in the beats of silence between them Enjolras could hear the orchestra still playing, as though competing with them. Everyone was having a fantastic time, and here was Enjolras sitting in the dark by himself and getting dirt all over his rented tux.

He really did hate weddings.

He lay down on his back with a sigh, closing his eyes, and wished himself back in Paris, in his own bed. That would be far more simple than the alternative he was faced with when he dared return to the wedding. Perhaps he could get away with sleeping out here? It was summer and the weather was stifling. He could quite easily fall asleep beneath the stars, listening to the insects and the distant sounds of the party.

His mind began to wander as he lay there, imagining what it would be like if Grantaire felt the same way about him; he thought about the two of them sneaking away to the vineyard together to watch the fireworks and steal kisses. He could imagine it all; Grantaire's hand against his face, warm and gentle, the satisfying scratch of his stubble against his throat as he moved the kisses lower...

“Enjolras?”

Enjolras startled at the interruption, lifting his head off the ground to see Jehan standing ten feet away from him, concern etched into their features and confetti in their hair.

“Did you follow me here?” he asked, stunned.

“You were pretty easy to follow,” Jehan informed him with a sympathetic smile, “You stepped in some of the flowerbeds on your way out here.”

“I did?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh.” Enjolras sighed, laying his head back down again, “Wonderful. I guess I'll receive a bill for that, then.”

“Only if they find out it was you. Are you doing okay?”

“Of course.”

Jehan gave him a dubious look; “You're lying in the dirt drinking flat champagne.”

Enjolras took a pointed swig from the bottle in his hand, “It's not flat yet.”

“Uh-huh. You shouldn't be on the ground - you'll get dirt in your hair and it's much too nice for that,” Jehan said gently, offering him their hand, “Come on. Get up.”

Enjolras took it reluctantly, groaning as Jehan pulled him to his feet with surprising ease considering their small stature.

“Did you and R have a fight?” they asked.

“Is it that obvious?” Enjolras said, rubbing his head; he fiddled with the rose behind his ear, wondering why he hadn't yet removed it, “I wouldn't say it was a _fight_ , exactly...”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.” Enjolras said, “I don't even want to think about it.”

“You guys need to be better at talking,” Jehan said, linking their arms and huddling close to him as they walked back in the direction of the garden.

“I can talk perfectly,” Enjolras protested, “I give speeches all the time, Jehan.”

“Oh you're great at talking,” Jehan nodded, “And R never shuts up. But you're awful at talking to _each other._ ”

Enjolras couldn't disagree with that. He and Grantaire had never had the best track record when it came to communication; they'd once managed to hold a 45 minute argument about where the group should go for lunch.

“I guess.” he said grudgingly, looking down at his feet, “I messed up tonight.”

“What happened?”

“I just made a big mess of trying to talk about my feelings,” Enjolras said, his fingers feeling numb as he gripped the neck of the champagne bottle. It was, he realised, the closest he'd ever come to admitting out loud that those feelings did in fact exist.

Fortunately Jehan was more merciful than Courfeyrac, and did not point it out.

“Maybe try again when you're sober?” they suggested, “And like, take turns. You two speak over each other all the time.”

“Maybe. Thanks. Did anyone else notice I was gone?” Enjolras asked, suddenly feeling excruciatingly guilty to think he might have inadvertently caused a scene at their friends' wedding.

“I didn't want anyone to worry...”

“Don't worry, I think it was just me,” Jehan said, “Everyone is busy with their own thing. Bahorel is trying to do a keg stand with a champagne bottle – don't ask – and Chetta invented a game where she keeps switching dates to see how many old ladies she can horrify. She's on six so far, I think.”

Enjolras smiled a little at that, amused.

“I'm sorry I stormed away,” he said, “Don't tell anyone, please.”

“Keeping my mouth shut,” Jehan swore, drawing a cross over their heart with one finger, “But on the condition that you have to share your champagne bottle.” they added, snatching it from Enjolras and taking an impressively large swig of it.

 

-

 

Jehan had been right – nobody had noticed his absence, something he was extremely grateful for. It was late now, and with the firework display coming to an end it seemed as though he'd caught the tail end of the party.

Most of Les Amis were still off doing...well, whatever they were doing, but Enjolras found that Bahorel, Joly and Musichetta had commandeered a table for themselves, and Jehan coaxed him over, Enjolras going without a fight.

“Can you believe there was no DJ?” Bahorel was complaining loudly, “Just that fancy orchestra shit. I had a list of song requests and everything.”

“It's not a proper wedding until you get drunk to Britney Spears,” Musichetta agreed darkly, "Oh - that's seven now, Joly," she added, gesturing to a pinched looking older woman who was watching them with disdain.

“A new record," Joly put it, "And don't be upset, Bahorel - maybe the band knows 'Toxic'?"

“I doubt it. But if I have to hear that fucking Vivaldi four seasons shit one more time I'm going to take that cellist's bow and shove it right up his ass.” Bahorel said, turning to Jehan and Enjolras as they joined them.

“Hey---oh, man, Enjolras, you don't look so good buddy.”

“I don't?” Enjolras said, and his voice must have come out more slurred than it sounded to him, because Joly shook his head.

“Drink some water,” he urged.

“I'm fine.”

“At least take some paracetamol?”

“No. I'll be okay.”

“You really should go to bed,” Musichetta remarked, laying one hand gently on his arm, “You look like you're going to pass out, hon.”

“Yeah,” Bahorel said, as though to second the motion. Outnumbered and outvoted, Enjolras didn't think he had much option other than to go along with it. Besides, it wasn't too bad of an idea – if he went to bed now he could probably be dead to the world by the time Grantaire came up to the room.

“Fine.” he sighed, “I'll go to bed.”

“Good. Hey, R!” Bahorel shouted, waving over Enjolras' shoulder, “Come pick up your trash!”

Enjolras froze when he heard Grantaire's voice behind him.

Fuck.

That wasn't part of the plan _at all_.

“What's up?”

“Our Fearless Leader here needs his bed,” Joly piped up, “He's drunk.”

“Oh.” Grantaire said, seemingly without any feeling. Enjolras was suddenly worried all the champagne he'd drunk was about to make a very unpleasant reappearance.

“What do you want me to do about that?”

“What do you---fucking hell, Grantaire!” Musichetta exclaimed, “What a true gentleman you are! He needs help getting there, dumbass.”

“Oh.” Grantaire's voice was cold, but he didn't argue; Enjolras thought it would have been easier for everyone if he'd just refused.

“Alright then,” he said, “Come on, then...”

Enjolras braced himself, turning to look at Grantaire as he stood, swaying unsteadily on his feet. There was no emotion on his face, and he didn't seem to want to look at him. It made Enjolras feel like crying again. He looked to Jehan for help, but all they did was give him an encouraging smile.

“Goodnight, Enjolras,” they said.

“Yeah,” Enjolras murmured, “Goodnight.” _Traitor._

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

This wasn't how Grantaire had wanted to end his night.

This wasn't how Grantaire wanted to end _any_ night, in fact - his feelings bruised and his ego in the gutter, escorting a stumbling drunk Enjolras to bed.

Describing Enjolras as 'stumbling drunk' was perhaps being too kind; he could barely stand, much less stumble. His eyes were unfocused, his hair in a state of distress, and he had spilled champagne all down the front of his shirt. He was, in a word, a mess.

As Grantaire steered Enjolras out of the marquee in the direction of the house he made a mental note to remember this incident the next time Enjolras had the temerity to look down on him for being drunk during meetings. At least when Grantaire drank to excess he retained enough composure to walk himself home - Enjolras was practically falling over his own feet.

“You're all _so_ helpful, by the way,” he yelled over his shoulder at their friends, “Just the best friends a guy could ask for!”

“He's _your_ roommate for this thing!” Bahorel reasoned, holding up his hands, “Not my problem!”

“ _I'll_ be your problem when we get back to Paris!” Grantaire vowed.

“You'll survive,” Joly said, “Probably.”

“Hopefully.” Bahorel put in.

Grantaire glared daggers at him, keeping hold of Enjolras' sleeve as they walked.

 

-

 

They'd only just made it into the guest wing of the house when Enjolras' legs suddenly decided to give up; it was probably all that time he spent storming around giving orders on them, Grantaire thought. A few too many glasses of champagne and that had been it. How _did_ someone get so wrecked on champagne, anyway? It was 99% elitism and bubbles, right?

“I feel strange,” Enjolras complained loudly, holding the side of his head, “Does the floor look uneven to you?”

“You're just drunk,” Grantaire said, “It'll make you dizzy.”

“Oh.” Enjolras stopped suddenly, bracing himself against the wall, “I really don't feel very good...”

“Yeah, I know. You drank a lot - it'll do that to you.” Grantaire said, watching as Enjolras seemed to melt into a puddle on the floor. It was a pitiful sight, really. Enjolras – proud, rigid, righteous Enjolras – sinking onto the carpet like his legs had turned to jelly.

“Do you need some help?” he offered.

“Maybe.” Enjolras conceded with a little sniff, sandy curls falling into his face, “I don't think I can stand up anymore.”

“Fantastic,” Grantaire said miserably, hooking his arms underneath Enjolras' armpits to try and lift him back onto his feet. It worked for maybe three seconds, Enjolras losing his balance the moment Grantaire released him.

“Can you at least _try_ to walk?”

Enjolras let out a tired whine, resting his face against the wall and closing his eyes as though to go to sleep.

“No.” he said, “The floor is too uneven. I'll fall.”

Grantaire glanced down the hallway to see how far they had left to go. Their room was only four doors down, but to Grantaire those few meters looked like miles. He looked back at Enjolras, still slumped at his feet, and realised with dismay that there was no other way for it – he was going to have to carry him. Enjolras looked like he'd be content to sleep in the hallway if Grantaire left him to his devices, and he couldn't let him do that. No matter what anyone thought he wasn't _that_ much of an asshole – least of all to Enjolras. For all his taunting and teasing he was hopelessly devoted to him - embarrassingly so, really. 

Hoping to god that Enjolras would have no recollection of this come the morning Grantaire bent to hoist him up off the floor, struggling with his dead weight until he was draped bridal style in his arms. Bridal style, at someone else's damn wedding!

“You're carrying me over the threshold,” Enjolras said, suddenly alarmingly awake and very confused, “Wait, who's wedding was this?” he asked, “Was it our wedding? Did we get married?”

“No, Enjolras,” Grantaire said, a strange ache in his chest, “We didn't get married.”

“Oh. Are you sure?”

“Uh, pretty damn sure.”

“But I'm wearing a suit,” Enjolras protested, “And I have a bouquet!” he added, retrieving the rose from behind his ear and presenting it to him. It was a miserable looking thing, tattered petals starting to brown at edges.

“That's the saddest bouquet I've ever seen.” Grantaire reported, sighing, “But no, Enjolras. We didn't get married. It's Marius and Cosette's wedding, remember?”

“It is? Oh. Wait, why are you carrying me then?”

“Because you're sloppy drunk and someone has to do it.”

“Oh. Well, you're really strong,” Enjolras slurred, snaking his arms around Grantaire's shoulders to hold onto him, “Thank you...”

“Don't mention it.” Grantaire mumbled, heart racing in his chest, “I mean it. Please.”

 

-

 

Grantaire fumbled to open the door with his elbow when they reached their room, depositing Enjolras onto the bed when they got inside. 

“Stay...” Enjolras slurred, clinging to Grantaire's shoulders as he tried to set him down, “R, please...”

“I'm not going anywhere. We're sharing a bed, remember?” Grantaire reminded him, reluctantly prying Enjolras' hands off of him. 

“So you'll be here all night?” Enjolras said.

“All night.” Grantaire confirmed. It was hard to see him like this - so affectionate, so soft. Under any other circumstances it would have been a dream come true to have Enjolras hanging off him and trying to pull him into bed. 

"Good. Thank you..."

“You're welcome. Right now though you need to get into something more comfortable,” Grantaire said, “You can't sleep in a suit and you've got champagne all over your shirt. Do you think you can stand long enough to go get changed?”

Enjolras made a weak attempt to rise from the bed, his hair sticking up in all directions. He removed his tie, flinging it across the room, and then collapsed back with a theatrical flourish of his arms.

“Done!” he cried, an air of triumph to his voice that said he thought he had done a marvelous job of getting himself undressed.

“Okay, definitely _not_ done,” Grantaire said, picking his tie up off the floor, “At least try to take your jacket off?”

“I cant. You'll have to do it for me.” Enjolras said, his tone suddenly turning sultry. He rolled over onto his stomach, fixing Grantaire with dark, piercing eyes.

“I guess you'll just have to undress me...”

“Oooookay - that's definitely _not_ happening,” Grantaire let out a high-pitched laugh, feeling like his heart was about to leap up out of his throat. This was hell. He was in hell. What had he done to deserve this? He wasn't _that_ bad of a person. 

“Why not...?” Enjolras pressed, propping himself up on his elbows.

“Because you're absolutely wasted.” Grantaire mumbled, “Trust me. You'll hate yourself for this in the morning – if you even remember it. You'll regret it."

“I won't!"

“You will, believe me. I'll help you get your shoes off, okay? That's all.”

“Fine.” Enjolras said, folding his arms underneath his head and sticking one leg out so dramatically that he nearly kicked Grantaire in the face.

“R, why don't you like me?” 

“I do like you.” Grantaire said in a small voice as he went about removing Enjolras' shoes. God, if only he knew just how much - he'd probably slap him.

“But we fought earlier.” Enjolras said.

“We fight all the time, Enjolras,” Grantaire pointed out, feeling a little sick, “It's not exactly a new development. Don't take it to heart, okay? I promise I like you.”

“But not the way I _want_ you to like me.”

Grantaire froze, one of Enjolras' shoes in his hand, “What?”

“I like you.” Enjolras repeated forcefully, “I mean it, R. You're wonderful. I think you're so smart and kind and funny,” he said, “And I love your hair, and your eyes. Your nose, too.”

“My nose has been broken about five times.”

“And I like it. I want to kiss it. You're so handsome...”

Grantaire's little squeak of surprise died in his throat, coming out as little more than a strangled whimper.

“Okay,” he said, needing a moment to gather his wits, “Well, uh, maybe some time when you're not trashed and talking nonsense...” he said, pulling the bedsheets up over him. 

“Do you think I'm attractive?” Enjolras said, reaching out to grab the front of his shirt. His eyes were still intense, his lips slightly parted.

“I think you're drunk,” Grantaire said, desperate to deflect the question.

“You don't, do you?” Enjolras lamented, letting go of him, "I knew it..."

“Of course I do.” Grantaire said, helpless to do anything but be honest, “Who wouldn't?”

Enjolras either didn't hear him or didn't believe him; he let out a huff, collapsing onto his front and closing his eyes.

Grantaire sighed, tucking Enjolras into bed, “Try and get some sleep,” he advised, “Your head is going to hurt and you're gonna feel like absolute shit in the morning.”

Enjolras let out an incoherent murmur, burying his face in the pillow that the night before had been Grantaire's. Minutes later he was unconscious - a resplendent angel snoring loudly and drooling in his sleep. Even passed out there was something about him that had Grantaire feeling extraordinarily fond. 

At that moment there was a soft knock on the door, Grantaire nearly jumping out of his skin as he turned and noticed Eponine peeking her head into the room, a half-empty glass of wine in one hand.

“Hey,” she said, eyebrows raised.

Grantaire motioned for her to be quiet, creeping over to the door.

“What?” he whispered.

“Joly and Bossuet told me you were helping Blondie to bed.” she said, as if that explained her presence.

“And?”

“And I was worried someone was going to die. I wondered if you needed my help disposing of the body." Eponine said, shooting a suspicious glance at Enjolras, now a motionless curly-haired lump beneath the covers, “He's breathing, right?”

“Of course he is.” Grantaire said, rolling his eyes.

“Good.” Eponine said, “That means I can kill him tomorrow for treating you like shit earlier.”

“Don't,” Grantaire warned, “Please. It's fine. He didn't say anything I didn't already know.”

“R---”

“It's okay,” Grantaire said, “Really, 'Ponine. I know he doesn't like me. He's not obligated to.”

“Well he still didn't need to be such an asshole about it. A wedding isn't the right fucking place.” Eponine snorted, draining her wine glass in one go, “Are you sure you're okay? I can help you with him if you need to.”

"Are you offering to help me kill him?"

"No." Eponine said with a scowl, "Unless you're asking me to...?"

"I'm good, thanks."

"Alright. Are you sure I can't do something?"

“It's fine. I guess he's my cross to bear for tonight. He's out cold now, anyway.” Grantaire shrugged, “I doubt he'll remember anything in the morning. He's going to feel like hell when he wakes up.”

“Good; it's serves him right,” Eponine said, “It turns out he's not a very nice drunk.”

“Says you? Didn't you try to shank a guy with a corkscrew once?”

“He was being a creep, he totally deserved a good shanking.” Eponine said defensively, “And I didn't _actually_ do it - I just threatened to.”

“That's mighty decent of you.” Grantaire said with a smirk.

“Yeah yeah, whatever. You're certain you're okay to be left with Blondie, then?”

“I'm certain.”

Eponine gave him a doubtful look, and then shrugged, “Well, can't say I didn't try!” she said, “If either of you murders the other at least I did my best.” With that she leaned forwards and kissed his cheek, thrusting her empty glass into his hand and then leaving the room, “I'm off to bed, then. Goodnight!”

“Goodnight. Give the newlyweds my love.”

“Fuck you.”

 

-

 

Grantaire lingered by the door, staring at Enjolras' sleeping figure. He had to go to bed - it was late now, and he was exhausted from the day's events - but the thought of crawling under the covers next to Enjolras was just as terrifying tonight as it had been the night before, maybe more so after all the strange things Enjolras had been coming out with. He set Eponine's glass down on the nightstand, stripping down to his boxers and t-shirt and trying to stay as far from Enjolras as possible as he got into bed. He switched out the lights and closed his eyes, only managing a few minutes of rest before he heard Enjolras shift behind him in the dark.

“Grantaire?” he called, his voice barely intelligible.

“Yeah?”

“Remind me to kiss you tomorrow...”

Grantaire cringed, “Yeah, sure,” he said, “You're really drunk, Enjolras. Go to sleep.”

“Okay. Grantaire?”

“What?”

“I love you.”

Grantaire felt his heart stop.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive me - this was meant to be 7 chapters, but this one ended up WAY too long, so I'm splitting it in two, giving this fic 8 chapters. Final chapter will be up tomorrow!

Enjolras felt sick to his stomach. 

For a moment he had no idea where he was, but as the room slowly came into focus and he looked around at the elegant décor and huge sash windows, everything of the previous day came rushing back to him.

Well, almost everything. He didn't recall how he'd got from the wedding marquee to the bed.

He glanced to his side, noticing that Grantaire was not beside him. In fact, there was no sign that Grantaire had ever been in the room at all; his suitcase was gone, along with all his clothes and the bottle of cologne he'd had on the nightstand.

Enjolras swung his legs out of bed, holding one hand against his temple as the room swung with him. Now he remembered why he rarely ever drank.

His fumbled for his phone, seeing a series of increasingly confused messages from Courfeyrac waiting for him;

_'Come to breakfast, twink!'_

_'Food is going cold!'_

_'Where r u?'_

_'Did you and Grantaire have a fight????'_

It was the last message that made the fancy canapés Enjolras had eaten the day before threaten to make a resurgence. What had he done last night?

He forced himself to his feet, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror and immediately wishing that he hadn't; there were shadows under his eyes and no colour in his cheeks and he was still dressed in his tux, the jacket creased and his shirt reeking of alcohol.

He was a mess.

It was a pity Grantaire had taken his cologne with him, he thought – it smelled good, though maybe Enjolras was a little biased. 

Thinking about Grantaire caused an anxious knot to form in his gut; he couldn't get that last text message from Courfeyrac out of his mind. Why would he think they'd had a fight unless Grantaire _looked_ like they'd had a fight? That would explain him packing up and leaving Enjolras to face his hangover alone. He strained his memory, desperately searching for some hint of what had happened the night before. He remembered them dancing, remembered wandering off into the vineyard, recalled the fuzzy, distorted features of Jehan's face and then...nothing. There was a completely blank space between then and now, and as far as Enjolras was concerned that could only mean total disaster.

He dressed himself and packed his bags, taking an occasional break when his vertigo returned, and then dumped his luggage in the entrance hall and joined Les Amis in the dining room.

They were nearly finished, the group having absolutely decimated the table of breakfast food that had been generously laid out for them. Bahorel looked like he had at least ten rashes of bacon stacked up on his plate, and Bossuet no less than four eggs. Feuilly was the only one of them who seemed capable of showing any restraint.

There was no sign of Grantaire, he noticed – or Eponine, for that matter.

“Aha! Sleeping beauty awakens!” Joly said when he saw Enjolras, waving him over to an empty chair beside Courfeyrac, “We saved you some crumbs!”

“Thank you.” Enjolras murmured, rubbing the side of his face.

“Sleep well, chief?” Bahorel laughed, seeming to revel in seeing Enjolras in such a state. It was a rare sight, and so Enjolras could hardly blame him. There were probably more photos of Bigfoot than there were of Enjolras with a hangover.

"You're looking a bit worse for wear," he said.

“I'll live.” Enjolras mumbled, practically collapsing into the seat next to Courfeyrac and looking down at the plate in front of him. His friends had saved him a little bit of everything, but truthfully Enjolras doubted his stomach could handle food at that moment. He was worried that if he took one bite it would come straight back up, and he'd already endured enough humiliation for a few days.

“Not feeling it?” Courfeyrac guessed, moving the plate away from him so he didn't have to smell it. Enjolras shook his head.

“Don't blame you. How are you feeling?”

“Rotten.”

“That's fair. Where did you go last night, anyway?” Courfeyrac said, sipping his orange juice, “You took off and I didn't see you again for the rest of the night. You _missed_ my best man's speech!”

“You're lucky you did,” Combeferre said, taking a bite of toast, “It was forty minutes long.”

“Forty well-worded, touching, meaningful minutes,” Courfeyrac amended, somewhat indignant.

“If you say so.” Combeferre said.

“I just went for a walk in the vineyard,” Enjolras said, looking over at Jehan across the table, “And then I went to bed, I assume.”

“You assume?”

“I don't _actually_ remember...”

“So you don't remember the part where Grantaire had to escort you back to your room?” Combeferre guessed, exchanging a look with Courfeyrac.

Enjolras felt his heart sink, “No,” he said, “I don't...”

“Oh. Well. That probably explains it...”

“Explains what?”

“Grantaire left this morning,” Courfeyrac told him, “Before breakfast. He took one piece of toast and said he had to go back to Paris urgently. Eponine went too.”

“Did they say why?” Enjolras asked, feeling suddenly very queasy again. This was his fault, somehow – he could feel it in his gut. Or maybe that was vomit?

“Grantaire didn't seem to want to talk about it. Eponine, though...” Courfeyrac grimaced, “She said she had to leave with him because if she didn't she'd kill you when you woke up.”

“Oh god,” Enjolras whispered, “ _What_ did I do?”

“No idea.” Courfeyrac shrugged, buttering another piece of toast, “But you might want to apologise anyway.”

 

-

 

The whole ride back to Paris Enjolras tried to remember what he'd done.

It must have been awful, whatever it was. He and Grantaire had fought many times, but never before had Grantaire stormed away without saying anything. He gave as good as he got - he always had. It was something Enjolras enjoyed about him. That this was bad enough to make him leave spoke volumes; Enjolras had evidently done something deplorable. 

Maybe he'd said something truly horrible to him? Grantaire tested his patience at the best of the times, but when he was drunk, with no filter? He'd hate himself forever if it transpired that he'd said something unforgivably cruel to him - Grantaire was already unforgivably cruel to himself, he didn't need Enjolras' help with that. 

Whatever he'd done he was going to have to avoid Eponine for the next few weeks if he didn't want to end up in the obituary section of  _Le Parisien._ He pressed his pounding forehead against the cool taxi window, staring out at the passing scenery and feeling wretched in every sense of the word.   


When the taxi dropped Enjolras and Combeferre off at their apartment they didn't bring up the incident with Grantaire. They unpacked their suitcases and spent the rest of the afternoon on their laptops updating Les Amis' social media accounts, Enjolras with a bag of frozen peas against his forehead and an endless stream of coffee at his side.

It was just starting to get dark when Combeferre stood up from the sofa somewhat abruptly, staring at his phone; Enjolras peered at him over the top of his laptop screen, frowning when he noticed he was pulling on a jacket.

“Are you going somewhere?”

Combeferre glanced at him, guilt written all over his face, “I'm not going to be here tonight,” he informed him.

“Oh,” Enjolras said, voice small. He was not entirely sure he was ready to be alone after all that had happened over the last few days.

“Why?” he asked, trying to sound nonchalant. He must have failed, because the pitying look Combeferre gave him was almost insulting. 

“Courfeyrac doesn't have Marius living with him anymore,” He pointed out, “And I think he's feeling a bit lonely. It's a big apartment, and he's all by himself...”

“So instead you're going to go over and leave _me_ in a big apartment all by myself?” Enjolras guessed, leaning back in his chair. 

“I'm sorry...”

“It's okay, I get it,” Enjolras said, waving it off, “He's your boyfriend. It's fine.”

“I just can't stand knowing that he's upset,” Combeferre shrugged, “I don't think he realised how different things would be. He needs me right now.”

Enjolras couldn't help but find it touching; Combeferre and Courfeyrac were undeniably good together, even if it did sometimes leave him feeling like a third wheel.

“You two really are going to be the next to get married.” he muttered.

Combeferre flushed at the comment – a rarity – and slipped his phone back into his pocket, “Well, uh,” he cleared his throat, “Goodnight then, Enjolras. I'll see you in the morning.”

“If I haven't died of embarrassment after the ordeal that was the wedding,” Enjolras said woefully, focusing on his computer screen again. His eyes were starting to hurt, all the words in front of him seeming to run together.

“You'll live, I'm sure,” Combeferre said, “But if Eponine comes over to murder you, you have my number.”

“Thanks.” Enjolras said dryly, “You're _so_ helpful.”

“You know me. And go to bed, Enjolras,” he said, almost as an afterthought, “You look exhausted.”

“I'm alright.”

Combeferre arched one eyebrow, “You look like your own reanimated corpse right now.”

Enjolras couldn't exactly argue with that.

“Fine.” he said, closing his laptop, “I guess I could do with an early night...”

“You could.” Combeferre agreed, patting him on the shoulder as he passed him, “I'll see you tomorrow.”

“Goodnight.”

 

-

 

Having an early night was easier said than done for Enjolras; suddenly his own bed, which had been just the right size for him before, seemed strangely large and empty. It was another stiflingly hot night - he should have been pleased to have the whole bed to himself. 

He stared up at the ceiling, his mind was racing. What had happened after Jehan had led him back to the marquee last night? Bahorel had called Grantaire over to walk him to their room. But then what? He remembered the starlight sweeping across the night sky, the smell of the summer flowers in the garden, the sound of the party growing distant as they headed towards the house...

...And then nothing.

He crawled out of bed with a sigh, finding his tuxedo on the floor of his room and attempting to fold it to busy himself; he was going to get an earful from the store when he tried to return it if he didn't find a way to clean it and press it before then. As he set it down on his dresser something small and soft fell out of it, landing on his foot. It was a single rose, battered and wilted and already starting to brown. 

_It's my bouquet,_ he thought, somewhat bizarrely.

And just like that it all started to come flooding back to him in fragments; he remembered Grantaire having to carry him to their room, remembered Grantaire helping him take off his shoes, remembered rolling onto his stomach and batting his eyelashes at him, remembered telling him he was handsome...

Oh.

Oh _no_.

He'd...

_Oh._

Fuck.

He grabbed his phone, tapping out a frantic message to Courfeyrac;

_'I told Grantaire I love him.'_

There was barely ten seconds between his message and Courfeyrac's reply; a very unhelpful _'Oh. You're fucked.'_

Enjolras slammed his phone down, burying his face into his pillow with a muffled scream.

What was he supposed to do? It was a disaster. He'd never imagined he'd actually tell Grantaire how he felt about him, but even in some alternate reality where he did this was definitely _not_ how he'd want to go about it.

No wonder Grantaire had left early. No wonder Eponine was out for his blood.

He'd ruined _everything_.

He lay like that for thirty minutes, thinking that maybe if was clever about it he could smother himself with his pillow so he wouldn't have to deal with the fallout.

Finally he took a deep breath, sitting up. He had to try and fix this. He had to – how would he ever face Grantaire again if he didn't? It wasn't exactly like he could avoid him; for reasons known only to Grantaire, he attended every meeting without fail.

Enjolras thought back to Jehan's words about their lack of communication, and realised there was only one thing he could do; he had to bite the bullet and explain.

He picked up his phone again, finding Grantaire in his contacts. The was only one other message thread between them on his phone – a question about Grantaire designing some flyers for a protest – and the realisation made Enjolras feel inexplicably guilty.

_'I'm sorry. Can we talk?'_ he sent.

For a few minutes there was no response, and Enjolras began to think Grantaire was ignoring him, but then, at last;

_'What is there to talk about?'_

Enjolras felt his stomach do a somersault.

_'You know what. I made a terrible mistake last night. I'm so sorry.'_

Another few minutes passed;

_'I know it was a mistake. It's not like it could have been anything else.'_

Enjolras hesitated for a while, wondering if what he was about to suggest would blow up in his face. Most likely, he thought - everything seemed to be doing that lately. But it was worth a try.

_'Come over?'_ he typed, _'We should talk in person.'_

There was a lot longer before Grantaire responded this time – ten minutes passed and Enjolras was about to give up, certain that Grantaire had turned off his phone, but then, finally;

_'Fine. See you in ten.'_

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The repetition in this chapter from an earlier one is on purpose. In case that wasn't obvious.

It was fifteen minutes before Grantaire finally rang the intercom for Enjolras' apartment building; Enjolras knew this because he'd timed it to the last second, worrying that Grantaire might have had a change of heart on the way over. He buzzed him in, pacing the room as he waited for him to battle the three flights of stairs up to his apartment, and wondered just what, exactly, he planned on saying to him when he got there. 

He'd have to tell him the truth - there was nothing else for it. All he could do was swallow his pride and be honest. The thought was daunting and unimaginable and happening, oh god, it was happening...

A loud knock on the door heralded Grantaire's arrival, and for a brief moment Enjolras found himself unable to move, glued to the spot with fear. Part of him wanted to switch off all the lights and pretend to be out, even though he'd just let him into the building. He couldn't do that; Grantaire would never buy it and Enjolras would lose him forever. He steeled himself, straightening up his back and marching to the front door to open it.

Grantaire was stood on the doorstep, hands stuffed in his pockets and his shoulders hunched up miserably. His gaze was fixed on the ground, and he only deigned to look at Enjolras for a split second as he opened the door, as though he couldn't stand the sight of him. The observation made the last shred of courage Enjolras had within him wither and die.

“Hey.” he said, voice small.

“Hey,” Grantaire muttered.

"Come in," Enjolras invited, stepping aside to let him in; Grantaire ventured inside as though he was expecting an ambush to be waiting for him. He looked around, brow creasing in that thoughtful way that was far more attractive than it should have been.

“Where's Combeferre?” he asked.

“He's out tonight.”

“Courfeyrac?” He guessed.

“Yeah.” Enjolras said, “Courfeyrac.”

“Figures,” Grantaire said, more to himself than to Enjolras ,“Good for them, I guess...”

Enjolras forced a smile to his face, “Yeah. They're good together. Would you like coffee...?”

“Only if you have the Irish kind," Grantaire said, in a manner that suggested it was meant as a joke.

“No, sorry." Enjolras said, "I don't think I even want to look at an alcoholic drink ever again for the rest of my life.”

“Yeah, that's probably for the best,” Grantaire huffed, raking his nails through his hair, “Enjolras, why did you ask me here?” he said, cutting their pleasantries to an abrupt end.

Enjolras felt his heart sink, heavy as a stone.

“We both know this can only end in another fight.” Grantaire continued, “You've never invited me over before. Whatever it is, just get it over with.”

Enjolras recoiled, “I just wanted to apologise...”

“Apologise?” Grantaire's laugh was bitter. 

“For last night.” Enjolras said quietly, “For the things I did...and said.”

Grantaire seemed to curl in on himself at the mention of the night before, backing up towards the door like a cornered animal. Based off his body language Enjolras half expected him to make a run for it.

“Yeah, well, you don't need to,” he said, averting his gaze again, “You were drunk. It's fine. We all say things we don't mean when we're drunk.”

“But we need to talk about it,” Enjolras reasoned, cautiously extending one hand towards him, “Please...”

“Again, what is there to talk about?” Grantaire said, jerking his arm away; his voice was hoarse, as though he'd been crying, and the thought made Enjolras hate himself even more.

“You summed it up pretty well in your text – you made a huge mistake last night.”

“I need to explain why I said what I did,” Enjolras pleaded.

“I already know why you said it!” Grantaire snapped; he looked up at him suddenly, his brown eyes flashing with emotion, “You were wasted. I get it. You don't have to explain yourself.”

“Grantaire, please---”

“I don't need you rubbing salt in the fucking wound, okay?!” Grantaire said angrily, his jaw clenched as though in pain, “Courfeyrac told you, didn't he? The fucking bastard, I should have known - he's _your_ best friend, after all.”

“Told me what?”

“You know full well what! It's not mutual – that's fine. But did you really have to say that just to be an ass to me?”

“What? Grantaire, I'm confused,” Enjolras said, stunned, “I didn't say anything to be an ass to you.”

“Well why _else_ would you say something like that?”

“Because I _meant_ it!” Enjolras cried, feeling tears sting the corners of his eyes. And, well, that was it. Just like that it was out in the open - years of longing for him from the sidelines, silently and distantly, like a coward.

Grantaire's jaw dropped almost comically, but he didn't make a sound – he seemed incapable of it. It was as though his voice had dried up in his throat, leaving him gawping there with his mouth open like a fish out of water.

“I meant it.” Enjolras repeated, his voice little more than a whisper, “And I'm sorry that it came out when I was drunk. That wasn't how I wanted it to come out, if ever.” he looked down, shaking, “I know you don't feel the same, and that's okay. You're not obligated to return my feelings. But I wanted you to know it wasn't just the alcohol talking.”

Grantaire didn't recover his voice for a few minutes. He just stared, mouth gaping, and then finally let out a few spluttered words; “You...like me?”

“Yes,” Enjolras said, exasperated, “More than like.”

“Holy shit.” Grantaire breathed, his eyes almost double their usual size, “ _Holy shit_ ,”

“I'm sorry.” Enjolras said, “I know this might make things awkward between us...”

“Awkward? You're fucking _kidding_ me, right? Wait - Courfeyrac _didn't_ tell you?” Grantaire said, “This is for real? Nobody has put you up to this?”

“Told me _what?_ ” Enjolras asked again, still completely lost.

“Oh my god. He didn't...”

“This is getting very hard to follow,” Enjolras said, rubbing his temple, “And my head still hurts from last night. Do you hate me or not?”

“I could never hate you." Grantaire said, still sounding awed, "How much of last night do you remember?”

“Only some of it,” Enjolras confessed, “There's still hazy bits.”

“Oh. So you don't remember the part where you asked me to remind you to kiss me?”

Enjolras cringed; “No...”

“Well, you asked me to remind you to kiss me,” Grantaire said, “So. Here's that reminder.”

Enjolras frowned, “Are you making fun of me?”

“No,” Grantaire said adamantly, shaking his head, “For once, no. I mean it. I'm reminding you.”

“Oh.”

It took a moment for what he said to sink in, but when it did, Enjolras felt his heart skip a beat.

“ _Oh!_ "

Their eyes met, full of emotion. Enjolras saw the silent permission in Grantaire's face, the slight parting of his lips, and...well, _fuck it_ , he thought.

He seized him by the collar of his shirt, pulling him to him and bringing their mouths crashing together with graceless fervour.

It wasn't a good kiss - Enjolras wasn't fooling himself, and he certainly mustn't have been fooling Grantaire - it had to have been painfully obvious that he'd had no previous experience. He was all teeth and tongue and awkward passion.

But he must have been doing something right, because amateur though he was Grantaire didn't complain, instead hooking one arm around Enjolras' waist to draw him closer. He demonstrated all the expertise and skill that Enjolras lacked; he kissed deeply and eagerly, until Enjolras was certain he was going to melt into a puddle where he stood. A small moan of disappointment escaped his mouth as Grantaire broke the kiss, leaning away and looking as though he'd been struck across the head with something heavy.

“Fucking hell. I've wanted to do that _forever,_ ” he said.

Enjolras smiled, dazed, “Really?”

“Why are you surprised?" Grantaire said, seeming genuinely amazed, "Did you really not know how I feel about you?"

"No..."

"Fuck. You must be the only one."

Enjolras felt a small laugh bubble up inside his chest; it felt like he was high. Or drunk still, maybe. His heart was soaring and his stomach was doing backflips.

“Well thank you for reminding me to kiss you,” he said, “It was extremely important.”

“You're very welcome.” Grantaire raised his eyebrows, “You should really pencil important appointments like that into your diary, though.”

“I should.” Enjolras agreed, still gripping the collar of Grantaire's shirt as though he might disappear into a puff of smoke if he let go of him. It felt like a dream.

He hesitated for a moment, wondering just how brave he was feeling, and then, deciding the answer was 'very', began to back up in the direction of his bedroom.

He saw something register on Grantaire's face – surprise? Excitement? – but he went along willingly, holding up his hands as though in surrender. 

"Are you sure...?"

“I'm very sure.” Enjolras said.

“We don't have to rush anything. We can go slowly, if you'd like,” Grantaire told him, “We can do dates and stuff first...”

“Do you not want to?”

“I absolutely want to,” Grantaire said quickly, “But do you?”

Enjolras let out a somewhat strangled laugh; Grantaire had no idea.

“I'm very sexually frustrated.” he said bluntly, wishing he could have a framed photo of the expression Grantaire made when he said it, “And this was a long time coming. And whilst I appreciate you wanting to be sensitive and patient, I'd appreciate it even more if we could just have sex.”

The sound that left Grantaire was nearly incomprehensible. He nodded furiously, his eyes wide, “Okay,” he said, voice high-pitched, “I'd definitely appreciate that too.” 

 

-

 

Enjolras scrambled back on the bed towards the pillows, dragging Grantaire down with him. His heart was hammering in his chest so hard he thought he might break a rib. They kissed again, a messy sort of kiss that was full of promise, and then Enjolras felt Grantaire's knee slot between his legs with devilish intent. He dug his nails into Grantaire's shoulders, letting out a small gasp.

“Tell me if I do anything you don't like,” Grantaire said, his voice husky. His breath was hot against Enjolras' ear, and it sent shivers down his spine.

“I don't want to make you uncomfortable...”

“I trust you.” Enjolras said, “But I promise I'll let you know.”

Satisfied with the answer Grantaire began peppering Enjolras' jaw and throat with kisses, applying the slightest pressure of his teeth against sensitive skin until Enjolras was throwing his head back on his pillow with a sigh.

It was better than he'd ever imagined, Grantaire's heart beating frantically against his, the pleasant scratch of his stubble against his neck. He closed his eyes, daring to shift his hips a little to grind against him. Grantaire let out a choked sound, pushing back just as eagerly.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he breathed, and Enjolras couldn't help but feel smug.

He ran one hand down the front of Grantaire's chest, fumbling to undo his fly; at that Grantaire pulled away, disentangling himself for a moment, “Wait - do you have any protection, or...?”

Enjolras flushed, propping himself up on his elbows, “Oh. I...no. I don't actually have much need of condoms usually, if you can believe that.”

“Ah.” Grantaire smiled almost sheepishly, “I mean, I didn't want to just presume...”

“You can presume away,” Enjolras said, “Everyone knows I'm as sexless as a nun.”

Grantaire smirked, “Well we'll fix that, if you like.” he said, adding as an afterthought, “We could raid Combeferre's room?”

“Oh _god_ no!” Enjolras said, wrinkling his nose, “He's like my brother, I don't want to go digging through his things to find a condom!”

“What, are you scared you're going to find a pair of fuzzy handcuffs in there or something?”

Enjolras let out a mortified laugh, swatting him across the head with the nearest pillow.

“Don't even put that mental image in my head!”

“Sorry, sorry,” Grantaire snickered, ducking his head, “But seriously, what other option do we have?”

Briefly Enjolras feared they'd have to postpone their plans - much to the disappointment of his libido - but then he remembered;

“OH!” he cried, making Grantaire startle; “Courfeyrac!” he said, wriggling out from beneath Grantaire and alighting the bed.

He grabbed his folded tux from the dresser, rooting through the jacket and then triumphantly holding up the condom Courfeyrac had given him the day before.

Grantaire gave him a perplexed look, “Uh...do I want to know why you had one of those in your tux...?”

“Courfeyrac gave it to me,” Enjolras said, realising that that didn't really explain much. As far as he was concerned it should have explained everything – it was just the sort of thing Courfeyrac would do.

“Why...?” Grantaire said, mystified.

“Because I was sharing a room with you...” Enjolras blushed, “He was being a dick, that's all...”

“Or he was predicting the future,” Grantaire said, eyebrows raised high.

“Or that,” Enjolras nodded, smiling bashfully.

Grantaire laughed, holding out his hand, “Come back to bed, then,” he coaxed, “And, uh, bring that with you I guess.”

 

-

 

Enjolras let out a frustrated growl, groping sleepily for his phone as 'Wake me up before you go-go' started to blast out of the speakers. Apparently he'd forgotten to turn off his alarm the night before; he was going to throttle Courfeyrac, he decided. He was pretty sure it would be ruled 'justifiable homicide'.

He didn't want to move – he was comfortable and content and delightfully warm on both sides, the right side from the sun pouring into his bedroom from the window and the left side from...from what, exactly?

He frowned to himself, rolling over onto his side and stopping within an inch of Grantaire's face.

_Oh._

It all came flooding back to him; clumsy kisses and his nails along Grantaire's back, the weight of him on top of him and the smell of sweat and sex. He remembered falling asleep content and comfortable in Grantaire's arms, and he remembered waking him up in the middle of the night for a very heated make-out session because, well, Grantaire was his boyfriend now and they could do that.

This was a good way to wake up.

Enjolras smiled, leaning forwards to place a gentle kiss on the corner of Grantaire's lips; he didn't know why Grantaire called himself ugly. As far as Enjolras was concerned he was beautiful, with his sharp jawline and unruly curls and unfairly long, dark eyelashes.

He blinked awake slowly, sleep-glazed eyes focusing for a moment and then lighting up when he saw Enjolras.

"Hey,” he said, voice gruff from sleep.

“Hey,” Enjolras said, beaming, “Good morning...”

“A very good morning,” Grantaire agreed, pulling him closer to him; he had morning breath and uneven stubble, and Enjolras had never been more smitten in his life.

Suddenly he scowled; “Did I have a really weird dream or was 'Wham!' playing a few minutes ago...?”

Enjolras turned scarlet, opening his mouth to explain – at that exact moment he heard the front door slam, and sat bolt upright in bed.

There was a knock on his door, and then Combeferre's voice; “Enjolras? Are you awake,”

“Yes,” Enjolras said, gesturing frantically to Grantaire to keep quiet, “Did you have a nice night?”

“Yeah...are you okay? You sound upset.”

“I'm not upset. I'm fine.” It wasn't a lie.

“Alright. Well, Courfeyrac is here.” Combeferre informed him, “Do you want any breakfast?”

“No thank you,” Enjolras said.

“Okay.”

There was a long pause.

“Does Grantaire want anything?”

Grantaire burst into laughter beside him; Enjolras put his head in his hands. From the hallway he heard Courfeyrac erupt into hysterics.

Yes, Enjolras thought. He was _definitely_ going to throttle Courfeyrac - _after_ he thanked him for making him room with Grantaire. And for other things.


End file.
